


Thirty Stories

by unkahii



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Based on Requests, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Suggestive, not explicit though!, word prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26890435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkahii/pseuds/unkahii
Summary: Little pieces, some from here some from there, but all stories nonetheless.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader, Bokuto Koutarou/Reader, Daishou Suguru/Reader, Hinata Shouyou/Reader, Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader, Kageyama Tobio/Reader, Kita Shinsuke/Reader, Kuguri Naoyasu/Reader, Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader, Miya Atsumu/Reader, Miya Osamu/Reader, Nishinoya Yuu/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader, Semi Eita/Reader, Terushima Yuuji/Reader, Tsukishima Kei/Reader, Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Kudos: 23





	1. Espionage [A. Miya]

**Author's Note:**

> spy! au; mention of guns and death

“That smile’s fake.”

And so it slips away.

You can feel your hands clench tighter at your sides, so death-tight that the nails might draw blood. Restraint. Control. That’s what you’re supposed to display.

 _‘Supposed to’_ , yes. But it doesn’t mean that you _manage_ to do the same.

“All of this is,” you breathe back, the fumes born out of expensive liquor hitting Atsumu’s face squarely. “A lie, fake…whatever you choose to call it. You know, and so do I, that this’ll have to end.”

They taught you how to put feelings that are unnecessary under a collar and leash, and how to tell the sweetest of lies and crack the phoniest of smiles if the need arises. Now’s high time for it. You need it _now_ —in hope that it can act as some form of a balm on your heart that is screaming.

This is nothing better than an illusion, a hallucination of sorts. The clever would never allow oneself to get carried away. _What’s the point?_ But since you do (and live the illusion and glean happiness from it, despite knowing that when the dream will end, it’ll hurt a thousand fold more), you must be rather unintelligent.

You fall under the category of fools and so does he.

“I know,” he repeats painfully, eyes downcast, face taut in a frown and his hold on your waist slackening. “The captain said we’re reaching land in a day and half.”

A day and half!

Pain crashes onto you; tsunami of hurt bellows up in your veins. You want to cry. Scream. Desperate thoughts roam into your brain, all of them miles away from the road of the solution you’re seeking. Destructive thoughts that will yield _nothing_ (just like that joy you felt when you twirled to the music with Atsumu in the empty hall yesterday, all care in the world forgotten). You let your panic show up, instead of veiling it with a plastic smile this time. He sees the emotion surging on your face, and the slackened grasp on your waist tightens again.

“Let’s run away,” you suggest. His mouth bends into a sceptical, wry smile.

“You know we can’t do that.” _Let it go, let the facade go for once_. Maybe it’s a _temporary_ refuge from the mask that has been stitched onto your face and personality through years of training at the school, but it’s still a refuge.

“I can’t…do it, I _can’t_. We can just escape—“

“We can’t,” he says with a resigned and solemn finality in his voice.

It breaks finally: the dam holding the tears back and they gather, crystal droplets, at the corner of your eye outlined with costly makeup. He can’t take it either, and joins your lips, closing the gap between your bodies. In the kiss, you end up faintly tasting the salt from his tears as well.

It’s too much. The process of shattering of glass as if played in slow motion.

“We’ve been idiots. The biggest idiots!” you exclaim, exasperated with yourself when you break apart, while Atsumu chooses to hold your cheek in the gentlest way possible. “What am I even doing?! I was supposed to run a bullet through your skull the moment I found it out! But no! I get carried away; I _let_ myself get carried away. And you!” you shoot at him; he meets your gaze. “Why haven’t _you_ finished me or locked me up? Isn’t that your job! Tell me!”

“Why haven’t you?” he questions back, calmly. You falter.

_It’s love, stupid. I’m in love and so are you._

“Unfortunately, I haven’t met someone like you before—who thought a spy of the _opposite_ ranks could sway Atsumu Miya’s heart that refuses to be stirred by anything else other than his job, his duty? I was the top student at the school for a reason, y’know. Look, what you’ve done. Can you understand what you can do?”

You can’t do anything. You’re helpless right now. All fire burnt out, doused with the intoxicating waters of something that tastes like longing, tenderness and an odd kind of peace. The gun is warm against your body, only waiting to be pulled out and the trigger drawn. He won’t even resist. It’s an easy kill. The easiest of them all.

And yet it’s the hardest of them all.

“So is this the end?” you ask tentatively. He sighs and lets you go. And when he does, a cry inside your heart lets you know of the invisible wall that materialises in the space separating you from him the very moment. It’s an unspoken goodbye from his touch forever.

It’ll be way easier for both of you if you pull out the gun.

“It is,” Atsumu says simply.

There’s silence in the cellar. The ship rocks against the ocean dreamily, trying to lull you away into a trance once more. But now you know, and so remembering the red crescent marks your nails have ended up etching on your palms, you hold back. The coast is near. As is the cruel reality.

A romance with an expiry date and the cruellest possible end.

“See ya then,” he offers you an artificial smile, voice quivering with the familiar lilt that he’s famous for.

There’s silence again, it’s your turn to speak. When you don’t, he gives in and presses a light kiss on your forehead.

The end is here, the bubble has burst.

“I love you,” your voice comes out as dry and devoid of any form of emotion—whether happiness or heartbreak.

“I love you too.” _What else can he say?_

_Can the gun ever touch the forehead that he has just left with the most real kiss he will ever manage to give?_


	2. baby; atsumu miya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ word count ] 943 ; 
> 
> [ notes ] angst, heartbreak and other related themes. he still thought about you so much ;

_He seems to be the type to have his heart broken._

“Miya-san!”

The young man however stopped short at the open door, for Bokuto Koutarou had looked up from his seat on the bleachers and was probably preparing to give an answer. Expectant, he stared still.

“He went back home early today y’know.”

“I see.”

Answer with him, his business at the place should have been over, if not for the third voice that joined in the conversation. “Don’t you think,” Inunaki Shion questioned, a tad bit sceptically and a tad bit worried, “that Atsumu seems to be off his game these days?”

He paused to hear.

“Now that you say,” Bokuto hummed thoughtfully. “I think so too. There’s been something on his mind as of late.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Ah no no.”

The young man too felt worried, but rather apprehensive to approach the setter at this juncture of time. The fact that his otherwise sharp plays had not been of their usual top standard was something hardly missed, by not just him, but all the team members as well. Someone had perhaps brought up the topic at an evening dinner with Atsumu Miya only to return with empty hands. He replied that _it was alright. There was no problem at all._

_Lies._

* * *

_In the colour of thousand red rose petals. Crimson, yet not so. Velvet like the brush of your lips. Can’t pull away. The longer you stare, the more you pump poison into your veins, the harder it gets to move away. You live in empty spaces, haunt the happy memories in the head—can’t forget, though the heart bleeds, cries to be sedated to sleep._

* * *

The bed felt irritatingly cold: the sheets scrunched underneath him, the damp darkness of the late evening hanging from the ceiling. Outside the large but closed window, like million creatures from an unknown land, the lights of night time Tokyo crawled by. The sounds bloomed into the air, diffused into the dizzy warmth exuded by city life and faded away—only to make space for more notes to take their place. _Ah_ , he should go out for a jog...that would be a good idea _. But no_...even if his body asked him to move, his reasonability asked him to stop being _so_ stupid—they were mere echoes in his head now. He didn’t feel like listening to them.

Atsumu turned about in his bed once more. The phone beckoned him to reach out again. He shouldn’t in all honesty—it kept pulling him back to the pits of hopelessness, to lanes where ghosts lived (and those that he shouldn’t be visiting).

Nonetheless, whatever name that stupid voice living inside his head went by, won at the end, and the luminescent screen came alive at once. It was muscle memory by now—no thoughts were needed to be spared as mechanically he reached out for your contact that still sat at the top of all other trivial names on the list. _Why Y/n, why?_ He asked to nobody in particular for the umpteenth time. _Just why? I loved you enough right?_

The loneliness rang loudly inside his heart, making him acutely aware of the void gaps inside his being, as unable to think of anything else, he simply gazed away at your contact name. At every letter, repeating very syllable over and over again in his mind like he used to, like how they had always resided there. Over and over. It hurt, true. But then again there was that weird little thing that had been born inside him lately that just made torturing himself with these thoughts instead of running away, seem like a better option.

Perhaps that was because with every jingle of your name inside his mind, the thinnest ray of hope and brightness emerged in his heart, giving him a false cheeriness, that stupid as he was, he had realised was of no use at the end. The texts he sent you waited on read. The missed calls piled up in his call history. _Perhaps today was a good time to call again_. _What if you picked up this time? He couldn’t give up so fast right_?

(Or what if you refused to receive the call once again. And the silence inside Atsumu’s apartment wouldn’t go away. _Ah,_ a small part of him knew it would happen anyways. But something’s gotten into him lately. He could tell that his plays had been getting worse.

You were just like that – quietly sneaking up on him and making yourself at home. Never before had this happened. It did once, and he fell)

Your phone rang away and away. Heart racing he clutched the phone in his sweaty palms. Watched the screen as if it was his lifeline. A minute passed (or maybe more).

No reply from the other side.

He let himself fall on the bed, the groan of springs as tired as his own breathing. Ears ringing with a funny noise. As if in a strange effort to tether himself to the realm of logical, calm reasonability, he gripped the cold sheet in his palm. But that boundary between the two worlds had vanished long ago. When he fell, he fell hard, and now too, he could feel himself hurtling past the cold air. Plummeting. So, his fingers ultimately pulled away from the sheets, wove into his hair, and pulled on them, maddeningly, as hard as he could muster. Sometimes he felt like rolling himself into a cocoon and crying to sleep.

Oh, well, but then he did that almost every day.

* * *

_Your contact on his phone still saved as ‘baby’._

* * *


	3. dynasty; akaashi keiji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> modern royal au. sort of fluff, sort of angst. where he is a ghost frozen in misplaced time, and you basically are the sunlight ;

He feels so so tired. Always. 

Time doesn’t fly; instead it flows like some irritating ooey-gooey viscous liquid. It’s a gel at worst, honey at best. Either ways being stuck inside time, especially a time you don’t belong to, doesn’t feel good. His lungs crushed under breathlessness, iron grip round his throat, choking him of life. His body is tired, his brain is tired. Endlessly, misplaced time never stops. He is a relic of the past he never belonged to. 

“You are NOT supposed to be with just anyone,” the stern old men and women, who are perhaps older ghosts than Akaashi, tell him through pursed lips. “A young man of your status…as the heir to our glorious royal family, you are only to marry a woman worthy of being called your wife , who of course we will choose, if not the woman of your choice can live up to the standards that have been held for the brides of the royal family since ages. Just another 9 to 5 salary worker will not make the cut." 

Instead he turns to you and asks, 

"Will you marry me Y/n?”

It starts with a tiny step. A lighter turning on in the dark. It is probably not rebellion: going directly against the words of the elders or turning down his mother, arguing with his father. Who knows what will make him forget all the memories that have been branded onto his psyche (a burden, truthfully, that he has to carry. A burden of the duties, responsibilities and daresay, obligations that fill the tattered back pack on his shoulders). Still, even if all this drama doesn’t really count, he feels younger than he has done in the recent years. The tickling of the shifting sands underneath his feet, the frothy water of the sea washing over them actually manage to touch him this morning. That is why perhaps when you come up with that long face at his side and groan in dismay “sorry, I have nothing to offer you on your birthday but happy birthday still” he feels a little bit irked, a little bit offended, and sad.

“You don’t have to be,” Akaashi replies nonchalantly. “Seriously speaking there’s no need to treat buying me gifts on my birthday as an obligation.”

Sometimes when you hear him talk, you feel as if he has lived a hundred years and not twenty something. Perhaps he has… _intensity of the experience_ -wise. In the modern age, growing up in the now in shambles but highly pedantic and stifling royal family is no easy task (or that’s what you infer from the stories from his childhood and teenage that Akaashi tells you. Or even from what you watch him experience these days). Most likely, he also feels zero inclination to partake in birthday celebrations, let it be in any form. From the doleful text that he sent you last night, warning you to not make any plans for tonight for he shall be busy with other responsibilities, lets you know that that god-awful party at that ancient mansion hasn’t been cancelled and will take place in all its glory.

Which perhaps he hates. Which is why he also hates being tied by obligations so much—whether it be him or anyone.

“But you know I want to get you something. Yeah I get it you don’t like all these obligatory stuff but believe me when I say it; it’s not because of all that from my side at least. I just want to…do things for you, with you.”

Which is why perhaps you like to say that you are in love with him. And which is why he relaxes against your touch when your hand reaches out for his.

A ghost. A time traveler. In essence he is a captive held by the past, by alien time which greys the colours of the world, steals him of the feeling that comes with hastening heart beats and butterflies in the stomach. If not for you, he would have never known what all these felt like.

Now he knows, and so he is able to smile into the sea breeze. The rough saltiness of the wind almost seeps in through the pores in his cotton shirt.

“Ah, right. My bad I forgot you like to make things difficult for yourself.”

You taste of sunlight, you smell like dreams. He is grateful that he met someone who would find the desire to eat ice cream at 11 pm a plausible and highly understandable one, and listen to him while he launches into rambles that were previously privy to only the leatherbound diary in his closet.

“It’s still early in the morning,” you add with a cheeky smirk. “Think we can squeeze a trip to the shopping complex into your schedule? Perhaps we might find a good gift there.”

He doesn’t need one – he already has you.

“Perhaps yes, your highness.”

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tobios-queen.tumblr.com


End file.
